


30-Day OTP Challenge

by reluctantabandon



Series: The Testimonial Series [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, M/M, PWP, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Smut, Testimony 'verse, The Author Regrets Nothing, The Testimonial Series, There might be a case but no promises, all the feels, it'll all be in here eventually I'm sure
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-13
Updated: 2013-10-06
Packaged: 2017-12-14 20:03:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,166
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/840828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/reluctantabandon/pseuds/reluctantabandon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock and John are settling into their journal. I mean relationship.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Day One: Holding Hands

**Author's Note:**

> Praise be to ACD for creating these characters, and to Moffat and Gatiss for this delicious iteration! The characters herein do not belong to me; just borrowing them FOR SCIENCE.
> 
> Oh lords, I have no idea what possessed me to start this (*cough*a_xmasmurder*cough*) I'm hoping to get a chapter up a day (HAH!) but don't hold your breath; it's more likely to be every two. I promise on my word of honor to finish, and you have permission to whine and sulk at me if I'm not going fast enough!

I was actually quite gobsmacked when it happened.

You're always —well, you're self-contained, aren't you? You're always thinking, when we're on a case, at a crime scene, and although you talk out loud to me and tell me what's going through your head, mostly to clarify for yourself, you don't pay a lot of attention to your body, or mine, unless it concerns what's happening there.

That's why I was so surprised, and you should have _seen_ the Yarders' faces, but you were too busy speculating and attacking the problem and thinking, thinking. It was marvelous, mostly because it seemed so... spontaneous.

We were talking — well, we were walking around the scene, and you were pointing out some weird mud patterns on the pavement that seemed to match the mud on the victim's shoes but really didn't, and you were flailing your hands around as wildly as ever, and speaking so fast that Lestrade could barely keep up, and then —

Then your hand dropped to your side, and you reached out as if you didn’t even know you were doing it, and twined your fingers through mine.

Lestrade looked, then did a double-take. Dimmock’s eyes got wider (I don't really know why he was there, consulting with Lestrade I suppose). It took Donovan a moment, but she gave me a look, and gave Lestrade a raised eyebrow. You waved your hands about with one of mine still clasped in one of yours, and the expression on Anderson’s face was priceless — I'm sorry you didn't see it; you would have raised your own eyebrow and made some kind of snarky comment, I'm sure.

What I felt (besides gobsmacked) was...warm. I'm sure I flushed a bit, but that's not what I mean.

It was a good feeling, Sherlock.

I know we’re together, a couple, you don't have to convince me; but for you to just grab my hand, as if it were the most natural thing in the world — that says more than words can, to me. And I'll bet it did to the Yarders, too.

I love you, Sherlock.

And that's why, when we got home from that crime scene, I pushed you and that ruddy great coat of yours up against the door. That's why I grabbed your face in both my hands and just looked at you, while you looked back at me with a question in your eyes. Then you looked — _really_ looked — at me, and your face softened a bit. Your eyes got dark, and you slid your arms around me and pulled me to you, hard; you bent your face to mine, and brushed, just brushed your lips against mine, so lightly it almost tickled, but instead it felt like an invitation and a promise. That's when I slid my hands into your hair, and your eyes slid shut, and you opened your mouth under mine —

It's difficult for me to write this, when it’s not so immediate, but I want to. I want to catalogue our love as much as you do, to come back to when there’s time, to number and mark that passion, so that when the flame has banked a bit we can come back to it. Don't get me wrong — I doubt what I feel for you will fade. We are too different for everything to become completely comfortable — there will always be new rough patches to rub each other raw, and I wouldn't want that to change. It's what makes us who we are. It's what makes this combination of _us_ work so astoundingly well.

And so, when I kiss you breathless against the door to our flat, I'll write it down. And when I take off that melodramatic coat of yours, and hang it up, and turn to look at you watching me with such desire in your eyes that it makes my heart pound harder, I'll record it here. And I'll take your hand, and lead you up the stairs to our bedroom — _ours_ — and I'll strip every last piece of clothing and scrap of resistance from you, and I'll press you down into the cool sheets, just like I did a little while ago, and I'll try to capture in words the sounds you make.

God, the sounds you make. I want to hear them, be the cause of them, and when you try to be quiet I'll try harder to make you cry out. And then I'll write down what I did, so I can do it again.

Today, just a little while ago, I did just that — the window in our room was open, and you for some reason were trying to be quiet (I heard Mrs. Turner's married ones, too, but I never expect you to observe any sort of propriety), and so I had to work extra hard to make you shout.

Gods, what you do to me, what the sight of you does to me, always. Today, as you waited there, by the end of our bed, your jacket off and your cuffs undone and you just starting to unbutton the front placket of your shirt (the white one, with the stripes, that makes you look even paler somehow) you were outlined in the light from the window. I just stood there, again, looking at you, feeling as if I can never look enough.

You were looking right back at me, and your face showed the same softness and desire from downstairs, at the door — and your hands went still as you watched me, as I unbuttoned and untucked my shirt, as I undid the belt of my jeans, as I thumbed the button. They were still as I pulled down the zip, and finally they moved as I moved closer and took them in my own. I put them gently aside and kissed you, kissed you as I pushed each button through its hole, kissed you as I pulled your shirt out of your trousers and off your shoulders. I could feel you trembling, a little, and you sighed as I kissed you again, breathy and low.

Your hands drew up my arms, then fell to my waist, where you inched up my vest until your fingertips touched skin. God, I love the feel of your hands on me. I could feel your calluses, each fingertip a slightly different texture, and the hairs on my stomach stood on end as you drew goosebumps from my waist and up over my shoulders. You pulled my vest up and off over my head; it interrupted our kiss, and you made an impatient noise and tossed the shirt away, then pressed back into me, chest to chest, our skin together. Your breath hitched, and you sighed again as I put my hand behind your head, pulling you into another kiss, wet and intense. You put your arms around me again, and I reached between us to undo the button on your trousers.

You shuddered — more than a shiver; your whole body moved. You lifted your head and looked at me with a kind of wonder, as if you still didn’t quite believe it, believe us. Couldn’t believe that this was going to happen, or believe that you could react like this. Like you can’t believe I would let you do this, with me, to me. You can. God, always, you can.

Like that, in that place of wonder, I laid you back on the cool sheets, and I showed you with my lips and hands and voice what you mean to me. Showed you how you take me apart, down to my very bones. Held you to me, pressed inside you, felt you fall apart for me, with me, your voice calling my name, the arch of your body gorgeous in the light.

God, I want you. I love you. Always, Sherlock. Always.


	2. Day Two: Cuddling Somewhere

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mmm, shmoopy shmoop! Sherlock POV.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks, Hippiechick, for the timely prod! =

 

 

I thought that what has happened, is happening between us, would be distracting. Like a dam breaking, flooding me with a turbulent and overwhelming wash of emotion. Your singularly distracting nature would be like a klieg light; it would be brilliant, illuminating, but would wash out the colour saturation and sharpen the shadows and make it hard for me to see clearly. One of the reasons I have been so hesitant to form any attachments is my belief that they would cloud my judgement. You’ve heard me say it: caring is not an advantage, as my brother has said, as my father did before him.

I was wrong.

I know you will smile when you read that again; you do so love to see me proven wrong, or at least mistaken, and for me to admit it adds another level of delight. I suppose I don’t begrudge you your little victory here, as I consider it a victory for me as well.

Instead of a distraction, you seem to have become even more of an asset. Since I no longer have to conceal the bewildering complexity of emotion caused by my love for you, I have no need to school my face, my tone, my movements to prevent you from discovering what I wanted for so long to hide. This freedom has also liberated the portion of my brain that had been apportioned to that irritating and lonely task; now, John, I have the entirety of my brain once more at my disposal. It’s exhilarating! Of course I still find myself thinking of you at odd moments: the whorl of hair on the back of your head; the tiny scar between the index and middle finger on your right hand; the way the small of your back smells after you’ve just showered. The way your face flushes and your eyes close, muscles tense as you arch up into me when you come. Yes. I think of those things often. Right now, in fact, as I write, I’m palming myself through my trousers at the thought of you. I was going to write about how instead of darkening my thoughts you illuminate them, how you provide a refreshing and important point of view to our cases, how your very presence seems to clarify my thought processes, grounding me and chasing away extraneous cares.

Instead, I seem to be thinking about last night. About how you intoxicate me, unmake me, enthrall and dissolve me.

You had a day at the surgery yesterday; I had a day of experiments, both at Bart’s and in the flat. I was in the kitchen when you arrived home. I had been quite absorbed in the coagulatory applications of the snake’s venom I had obtained (legally of course) from a dealer (Eastern American copperhead, quite interesting, no practical applications as yet) but when I heard your key rattle in the lock, suddenly the experiment failed to hold my attention. I hastened to put my things away, throwing my safety goggles into the sink and stripping off my disposable nitrile gloves. Your step on the stair was slow but firm; tired, but not unsteady, and I judged you were most likely eager to wind down after a busy afternoon.

You stepped into the flat, and I heard your sigh of relief, the noise of your keys hitting the table, the rustle of fabric as you removed your coat. I couldn’t see you yet; I was in the kitchen, quietly listening to the sounds of your homecoming, anticipating that thrill when our eyes would meet for the first time since morning.

“Here, John.” I turned to greet you, and there you were. You smiled at me, and our gazes locked. God, the shock of it, a searing pulse through my body, tightening my breath and sending heat straight to my groin. Astounding.

“Hello.” Your smile widened, and you closed the gap between us, fisting your hand in my shirtfront and pulling me down into a kiss, soft and sweet. Ordinary, everyday affection: brilliant.

“You’re looking at me as if I’m the best thing you’ve ever seen.” You tipped your head to look up at me (through your lashes — unfair advantage).

“That’s because you are.” It still amazes me that I can touch you, that I am not just permitted, but encouraged, to put my hands on your body. I want to wrap myself around you, cling to you always, like some kind of bizarre cephalopodic growth. And so, I put my hands on your hips, tugging you against me. I could feel your warmth, seeping through the layers of our clothing. It felt comfortable, comforting, and it came to me why. “I missed you.” I smiled back at you. “We haven’t been apart for an entire day like this since we became lovers.”

Your ears went pink (I adore it when they do that) and you huffed out a laugh. “Blunt as always. Don’t know why I’m surprised.” You kissed me again, this time lingering a bit, catching my bottom lip between yours. “Lovers. Mmm.” Your smile made your eyes crinkle in the most lovely way. You untangled your hand from my shirt and pulled back a bit, and I felt myself sway towards you, not wanting to lose that comfort. “Well, this lover’s famished. I’ll make us some sandwiches, yeah?”

 “All right.” If you made something for me, you knew I'd eat, at least a bit, and so we stayed in the kitchen while you got out the sandwich things and told me about your day. Flu season seemed to be over; now it was bumps and scrapes and spring colds. Delightful. I wanted to take the knife and tomato from your hands and press you back against the counter and kiss you again, deeply. I wanted to hold the nape of your neck in my palm and taste your day -- the almost medicinal taste of bitter clinic air on your tongue, the garlic dressing on your luncheon salad, the sweetness left by the sugar in your afternoon tea. Your nearness was almost too much to resist. I knew, however, that you were hungry, and I wanted you fed and content when we finally went to bed.

I resisted for the entire seventeen and half minutes it took for you to make three and consume two tomato sandwiches. I even managed to eat most of mine. I described my current experiment and watched your face change, from interested to protective to we'll-talk-about-this-later-you. When we finished, finally, you looked over at me, your eyes darkening. You slid your hand across the table to mine, palm upwards, and waited. I placed my hand atop yours, and you stood, pulling, until I followed you into the lounge, onto the sofa.

"Can we just sit for a few minutes?" you asked softly, your head already dropping to my shoulder. "I just want to be close to you for a bit without, you know, ripping your clothes off." Your shoulders shook as you giggled. "Put your arm around me, there, that's it."

You arranged my arm more comfortably, pulling my hand down from your shoulder to tangle my fingers with yours and capturing my other hand in your lap. It was...nice. Very undemanding, yet intimate, in a way that only you have allowed me to experience. I felt my breathing slow and steady, and the rhythmic stroke of your thumb on the back of my hand relaxed me further. I hadn't realized until then just how tense I had been. I made what amounted to a low rumble of satisfaction deep in my throat, and your fingers squeezed mine, once.

We sat there and watched the twilight overtake the sitting room, listening to the creaking of the old house and the noises of traffic from the street below. I closed my eyes, at last, and felt the thrumming of your heartbeat under my arm, the rise and fall of your chest as you breathed.

 


	3. Day Three: Watching a Movie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> LET THE PORN COMMENCE.  
> Be warned: definitely NSFW!

“So, Bond night?” You stretched a bit, and your head shifted on my shoulder.

I knew you simply wanted to sit, together, breathing, but I couldn't help myself, John; I turned my head and pressed my lips to your hair. I smelled your shampoo and the clinic and a hint of sweat, and it was delicious; I had to get closer.

I opened my mouth and breathed you in, through my nose and over my tongue, and had to suppress the moan of longing I felt building in my throat. Just a few minutes, you said; I could wait that long. The anticipation was in itself a kind of painful pleasure. I inhaled again, long and luxurious.

“Are you _sniffing_ me?” you asked. Your voice was amused. I pulled back a bit to look down at you, and you were smiling: good.

“Mmmm.” The noise I made was noncommittal, but you chuckled anyway, turning your head to kiss my jawline. You left a few tiny kisses there, and I took the opportunity to turn and brush my lips against yours. The desire that had lain quiescent in me for a time flared again, spangling my vision and making me feel as if I could melt into the sofa, into you.

Craving pulled me from the stray random thoughts still ricocheting through my brain _(snake venom results so far inconclusive clinic cleaners using stronger disinfectant walked home through the park_ ) and made me focus entirely on the sensation of my mouth meeting yours. The noise I made this time was greedy. I wanted more; I always want more of you.

You responded by twisting in my arms, letting go of my hands to pull me closer, one hand on the nape of my neck. Never letting our lips part, you opened mine with your tongue, and the heat of your mouth was incendiary.

I wound both arms around you, but it was still not close enough, never enough, and I know you felt it too because you pushed at my chest until I lay on the couch beneath you. Your knees were suddenly straddling my thighs. One of your hands was in my hair and the other went to my waist, squirming under my waistband. Somewhere, distantly, I could hear myself making little noises of encouragement.

“God, I want you,” you breathed softly as you pushed my shirt up and out of the way, then fastened your mouth on my nipple. Your stubble was harsh against my skin, pinpoints around the humid warmth of your mouth. I arched up into you with an absolutely shameless moan, and you growled against my chest. Frantic for more contact, I scrabbled useless hands at my waistband, trying to undo the fastener as your tongue circled and flicked my nipple and left me completely uncoordinated. You chuckled against my chest and slid your hands down and between us, with slightly better results.

“Lift,” you said, leaning back onto your knees, and I obligingly lifted my hips. You pulled my trousers and pants down and over my knees, then reached around and pulled them off the rest of the way, dropping them to the floor. Your own clothing followed shortly; I don’t even know what contortions you went through to get them off while you rubbed your face against my burgeoning erection; my eyes were shut by then, my hands tangled in your hair. You mouthed along the side of my prick; I could feel your breath, hot and moist, and a flicker of tongue. Then you were gone again, and I opened my eyes to see you peeling off your jumper and shirt. Outlined by the light from the window, you were all pale and gold in the twilight, the muscles in your arms delineated as you struggled with the cuffs of your shirt. You threw it to the floor, finally, and knelt astride me, panting, just looking.

Since your mouth wasn’t anywhere on my body at the moment, I was slightly more coordinated, and so I held your gaze, slowly undoing the buttons on my shirt one by one, watching you watch me. You reached to do the final one yourself, then pushed my shirt to the sides; I swear I could feel the weight of your eyes, like a hand tracing the contours of my chest. Your hand.

“John,” I said. One word, and you lowered yourself onto me, slowly letting our bodies come together inch by inch. At last, when your mouth touched mine, we were pressed against each other from your toes upwards, skin to skin wherever we could reach. You slowly, slowly squirmed against me, lips against my neck like hot little parentheses around your breath, and I wrapped my legs around yours and shoved upward as hard as I could.

You let out an absolutely deliciously wanton groan and moved, twisting. “Lube, god, where is it,” you gasped against my mouth, and I groped frantically between the sofa cushions until I felt the cold cylinder of the bottle. You grabbed it out of my hand and unceremoniously shoved the bottle between us, squeezing. I felt the viscous liquid chill my stomach, then your so-warm hand insinuated itself and began to stroke us together.

You had arched your back a bit to get a grip on us, and suddenly I felt that you were too far away — I wanted you hot and close, without the distraction of maintaining a rhythm. My hands were on your hips, and I wanted to roll us over, use my greater weight to hold you down, press into you, but that would have resulted in an uncomfortable landing on the floor. Instead, I used a gentler tactic.

“John,” I breathed into your ear, near where your cheek was flushed and sweating. “John, I want—” I paused, finding it hard to formulate thoughts, never mind a coherent sentence.

“What, Sherlock, what is it? Anything, anything, _god_ — “ you ground into me, hand moving, twisting, making me gasp and shudder.

“Switch. Can we —” You froze, your hand stilled, then you kissed me frantically, moaning into my mouth.

“God, _god_ , yes, wait —” You barely broke the kiss as you scrambled off me, pulling me up and practically throwing yourself on the couch where I had lain.

I crouched over you, then, just looking, as you had paused before. I trailed my hand down through the slick on your stomach, then with one finger traced the underside of your cock. Gorgeous. You had your knees bent, feet flat to the couch, and I bit my lip, contemplating.

“Put your legs together,” I whispered; it came out so low, so rough, that I saw the goosebumps travel up your torso as you complied. Your hands gripped the leather of the sofa, knuckles whitening. Your eyes searched my face..

Just as you had earlier, I straddled your hips, put my hands just above your shoulders and lowered myself slowly, so slowly, until we touched again from toe to cheek. Oh, just what I wanted, to feel you beneath me, trembling, wanting, but waiting to see what I would do. Your hand reached up to caress my shoulder, my cheek. I let my weight rest on you, holding you, lowering to my elbows as I pressed down.

“Let me between your thighs,” I breathed into your ear, and you tried to comply, as much as you could, since I held you tightly, tightly. Our cocks were still slick with lube, and I moved, seeking, until I found the cleft between your legs, slid my prick down beneath yours, into that tight space, and pushed. My knees outside your legs held them tightly closed, and you squirmed as my cock glided over the underside of your testicles, your perineum. You shifted, moaning, as the head passed over the sensitive skin of your anus, and I drove forward harder, wanting your sounds, your neediness, swallowing them in my greed for your mouth.

I gathered you to me, more tightly than before, arms wrapped around your shoulders, the perspiration beginning to build between us, making that slick and glide sweeter. You could barely move, and your hands gripped my hips, kneading, as my thrusting began to lose its rhythm. You were so contained, so perfect, letting me rut against you in animal lust, feeling your cock surge and jerk as you orgasmed, arching as much as you could beneath me as I held you. Just the feel of you, so enclosed and controlled, and my own release took me, shaking and shouting.

I lay on you, panting, feeling the last shivers of pleasure move through you, feeling my own. You were placid and relaxed, running your hands over my body, both of us languid, sated. We kissed again, a lazy, sweet, and lingering caress of tongues. Then you pushed at me, grumbling a bit at my weight, and I wedged myself between you and the back of the sofa, pulling you against me, chest to back.

“Mmm. Big spoon, eh?” you chuckled. I curled around you further and kissed your neck, smiling.

“So…” I said, and sighed theatrically. “Bond night?”

**Author's Note:**

> Endless thanks to nichellen, always my perfect whip-hand, and to Winter_of_our_Discontent, for profound beta and cheerleading skills. You rock. And for a_xmasmurder: Monster, this is YOUR fault!! (If you haven't, go read her 00Q OTP Challenge RIGHT NOW!)
> 
> Thank you so much for reading!


End file.
